alone downtown

me, as zach <3
crowded
noisy
chaotic
beautiful
downtown

single
silent
serene
simple
me

no camera
so I take pictures with my words instead
it's ok
they hold the memory longest

wondering and wandering
unlost
but unready to meet the found

meanwhile
a biker
I wonder where he's going
I wonder where he's been

a bird in the distance
finds second home in a building's broken barricade

the simple things
nourish me
as I (choose not to) await the complexities of tomorrow
I will be here when they are ready for me

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poetry

where the weather changes unexpectedly
(be it refreshing or cruel)
there is poetry

the frame more or less remains the same but the insides change
they always, however, mean something to me
he is poetry

tender or cold; a forced connection is made
for me it is love, another unhope
she is poetry

that thing with which you're said to love
the one that daily beats: life won
it houses poetry

that feeling that you cannot grasp
yet still somehow manage to have
it comes from poetry

that thought not yet put into words
exemplified in the wind's rustle through the trees
it leads to poetry

infinate nothingness
minute something
everything that is, isn't, and will be
can be found in poetry

all those without
all that within
begins and ends in poetry

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stormy weather

I heard a lady say

somethin bout stormy weather comin her way

once her someone left her

there were times when the storms mimicked my pain

tears uncried released from the sky:

raindrops heart heavy as the lightening striked

and I did he from my life

but that lady
seemed like she sang her sad song forever

I remember a day
sittin outside

on a bench in the rain

light'nin then thunder then light'nin again
overhead
thinking of leaving to find shelter and staying instead
so serene
we watched and enjoyed from our seat in the front row

there was a storm before that
I tensed my body as the thunder crashed into our private party pushing us together
fingertips firmly pressed to my back
he was my shelter then

I see where she was coming from
but I've lived a little, and a lot I've learned
thought about it and decided
stormy weather aint so bad after all

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Ars Poetica

This is not art.

This is not art.
But an unfinished yet unabandoned conclusion.
I'll call it a start:
A beginning incomplete and never-ending, rather fresh and new each blinking eye.

This is not art.
This is me. This is you. This is us, we, them, true.
New
To some but home to many.
Blue to one, a zone to plenty.
An aching answer unquestioned unadorned
unfathomable, unawakened, unkept, and unsure.

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